


Find That Bit of Faith

by will_o_whisper



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Oral Sex, questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_o_whisper/pseuds/will_o_whisper
Summary: Preston gets to know a man he'd really rather not.





	

Preston hated the cold. The General told him once that winters were warmer than they had been before the war. Huddled over a sputtering burn barrel, damp white clouds curling up his cheeks with every exhalation, he found that hard to believe. He clapped his hands and held them as close to the fire as he dared. The tips of his fingers stung pleasantly as the feeling began to return to them. He tried to imagine a world before the Commonwealth. Sturdy houses and clean clothes like the pictures in the old magazines he’d read as a child. It sounded impossible, magical. The General said the reality was far bleaker; but she also said there was thing called central heating - whole buildings warmed without the need for pungent fire pits and billowing smoke. Right now, Preston thought, such a luxury seemed more than worth any price.

He clapped again, as though he could shake sensation from his fingers down into his arms. A grumble across the barrel caught his attention, reminding him he wasn’t alone. He put his hands back out and tucked his chin so the brim of his hat dipped further over his eyes.

“We’d both be a lot warmer if you came over here you know,” MacCready said. Preston heard the mercenary stamp his feet and the shuffle of clothes as he shifted position.

Without looking up he answered, “I’m fine.”

“Bull shi- I mean, God. Yeah, right, and I’m mayor of Diamond City. I can’t remember what having feet feels like. It wouldn’t be so bad if the rest of you cowboys were here but…” He sighed.

Preston wanted to sigh too. “We’re not cowboys; we’re Minutemen,” he muttered. He didn’t know if MacCready heard him over the crackle of the fire; he didn’t much care.

Robert Joseph MacCready had arrived two months ago, trailing after the General on one of her infrequent visits to the Castle like some scrawny lost dog. She hired him in Goodneighbor, she told Preston. He was a mercenary with no love for the Gunners and here to help; in sharing that he supposed she meant to lay a bit of common ground between them.

Preston rarely questioned the General but they fought badly that day. The Gunners may be the most vicious, the most organized, but no man who fought for caps could be trusted, he said. The Minutemen are a half dozen settlements of untrained farmers, she said. Mercenaries would turn on you for the next big payday, he said. The Castle is a fortress manned by four women, two men, and a dog, she said. We’re better than this, he said. We can’t afford to be, she said.

“You’ll kill us,” he said.

“Then stop me,” she said.

They repeated the same argument every night for three days. Preston swore; he yelled; he begged; he threatened. He choked down rage. He didn’t cry. The General did not budge. When she left the morning of the fourth day she left MacCready behind. Preston put him to work patrolling the walls. He watched him closely, carefully.

Preston looked up to find MacCready watching him through the hazy white smoke. The air above the fire shimmered from the heat. Shadows danced over MacCready’s face. Preston thought about looking away. The barracks were deserted save the two of them, the rest of the Castle’s precious numbers on patrol or on watch. He could pull on his gloves and crawl into bed. He wanted to. He didn’t. He held MacCready’s gaze.

MacCready broke eye contact first. “Man, nights like this make me miss having a solid roof over my head. I mean like a proper stone ceiling, you know?” he added, before Preston could comment. “A good solid cave. Makes me miss Little Lamplight. You could always find a group of kids to huddle up with.”

“Little Lamplight?”

“Oh, uh. Where I grew up, in the Capital Wasteland. It was…” He trailed off. Obscured as he was by the smoke, Preston couldn’t tell if MacCready was staring at the flames or him.

Preston waited for MacCready to finish his sentence, but the other man seemed done with his story. It wasn’t that Preston was unused to hearing MacCready talk - indeed from the day he arrived he had done nothing but, complaining and bragging in equal measure loudly and often. Preston never cared to listen to mercenary bluster, but tonight felt different. Honest, intimate even with the barrel fire between them. Curiosity gnawed at his throat, urging him to give voice to the questions rattling in his head. Instead, he stamped his feet, toes painfully numb compared to his suddenly flush cheeks.

The next minutes passed in awkward silence, broken periodically by a cough or the shuffling of feet. Occasionally muffled voices drifted in from outside, a reminder that the old fortress wasn’t as abandoned as it felt.

Smoke pricked at Preston’s eyes until they watered. The fire would need to be stoked again soon, though the thought of leaving his tiny ring of almost-warmth for fresh wood was unbearable. He shot a glance at MacCready and was startled to find the other man already watching him. He was startled still by the sudden heat that coursed through his abdomen. A memory and a thought struck him all at once: of cold nights spent pressed against his father’s chest; of a cold night spent with MacCready pressed against his back. The images were discordant: comforting and alarming, repulsive and enticing. A fond childhood memory and something else Preston couldn’t explain.

Abruptly he stepped out of the circle of warmth. He pressed through the icy air towards the corner of the room, where the stacks of firewood were kept. He imagined he felt MacCready’s eyes on his back the whole time. Preston shivered. He wasn’t sure it was all due the the cold.

When he returned he set the fresh kindling into the barrel before grabbing the iron poker propped against it to gently stoke the fire. Flames roared up, forcing Preston to lean back from the sudden blast of heat. The crackle of fresh burning wood filled the barracks.

“That should help,” Preston said.

“It better. I can’t feel my freaking anything.”

“What are you-!”

Preston glanced to his side. MacCready glowered back at him and bumped their shoulders together.

“Look I don’t like you either Garvey, but you know what I do like? Not freezing to death.”

Preston stiffened out of anger, or so he told himself. He focused on the feelings of indignation tightening in his chest. He watched the shadows dance over MacCready’s face and tried not to feel how his body felt pressed against his side.

“I just don’t trust you,” Preston muttered. The words didn’t lack for bite.

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you either,” MacCready snapped back. His petulant expression matched his childish tone. His face was inches Preston, and each breath came out as warm damp clouds that curled over Preston’s cheeks. With his back half to the fire, his face seemed almost to glow in the flickering shadows.

Preston shivered, from the cold he told himself though he felt nothing but heat. A thought, unbidden and startling: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close to a man. He squared his shoulders and leaned forward, though better sense demanded he pull away.

“What are you after?”

“A warm body to curl up with so I don’t die of hypothermia tonight?” MacCready grinned. In the elusory light the quirk of lips looked almost mischievous. “I won’t stab your back if you won’t stab mine?”

Those words curled hot and tight in Preston’s abdomen. He inhaled sharply through his teeth. The hiss of air was deafening to his ears; he was sure MacCready heard.

“...Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay.”

Over the past few days, once it was clear the cold snap would not pass soon, most of the mattresses had pulled off the bunks to circle one of the burn barrels. There were a half dozen in total. At most three people rested on them at any one time. Preston made his way towards his own makeshift bed, MacCready trotting along at his heels. His tattered old blankets were crumpled in a ball in the middle of the stained prewar mattress, exactly where he’d left them that morning.

Preston kept his back to MacCready while he fumbled his belt buckle with shaking fingers; the shuffle of clothing indicated MacCready was doing the same. Preston dropped his belt and hat at the head of the mattress but kept the rest of his clothes, including his jacket and boots, on. He shook out the blankets until they lay mostly flat and crawled underneath them. Only then did he look back at his companion.

MacCready was still standing. His face was mostly shrouded in darkness, but Preston imagined he could feel him watching him, like he had been over the fire. He felt exposed, suddenly, there on the floor. He resisted the urge to pull the blankets up to his chin, like he had as a child hiding from monsters.

After another second MacCready crawled onto the makeshift bed as well. Preston stiffened as he pressed up against his side, tugged the blankets back over them both, and flung an arm over Preston’s chest.

“This is way warmer, right?” MacCready muttered. He’d tucked his face into the crook of Preston’s neck. Again, his hot breath ghosted over Preston’s chilled skin when he spoke.

Preston shivered. His face was hot; he barely felt the icy air anymore. “Yeah,” he sighed.

MacCready laughed. Another breath of air, or perhaps a brush of lips teased at Preston’s neck.

The last time Preston kissed a man he was nineteen. He couldn’t even remember his name, but he remembered dark eyes, chapped lips, and rough skin. He remembered heat like a fire curling in his belly and crawling up his neck.

Preston exhaled sharply. He inhaled. He exhaled again. The wispy remains of his breath danced up towards the jittery shadow people on the mildew-stained ceiling. As he brushed his calloused fingertips over MacCready’s knuckles, shivering at the way they caught on his skin, he wondered if he was still awake.

“Hey,” Preston whispered, turning slightly towards the man dozing at his side.

MacCready jerked at the words, and with a bolt of shame Preston realized he had likely already fallen asleep. He started to pull his hand away when MacCready butted his chin with his forehead and muttered “What?”

“I’m…” Preston glanced away. Confronted with reality the spell from earlier was fading fast and guilt rapidly replaced desire. “I’m cold,” he finished lamely.

“Join the club. What do you want me to do about?”

The best course of action would to be pull away, Preston knew, but there was no where to go. MacCready still had his arm slung lazily over his chest, sleepily toying with Preston’s hand. Each touch sent a tingle down Preston’s spine. He couldn’t go back, but he could go through.

Steeling himself, without a word Preston leaned forward and kissed MacCready. His lips were chapped and dry. The heady smells of wood smoke, gun solvent, and sweat made Preston's head spin. MacCready’s fingers slipped from his, down his flank to grasp his hip. Preston barely felt the touch through his clothes, but he felt his body respond all the same: an electric jolt down his spine, a rush of heat to his cock. Blood pounded in his ears.

The fire cracked loudly. Preston pulled away, dizzy and dreamlike. He felt, suddenly, very aware of the icy night air on his burning cheeks. His coat had bunched up and dug into his lower back. He shuffled like an upside down turtle trying to smooth the fabric out.

MacCready leaned back to let him but kept his hand on Preston’s hip, kneading the stiff fabric of his pants absentmindedly.

“What the hell.”

That mild profanity startled Preston more than any other response MacCready could have mustered. He laughed, a stifled titter that broke down into a full shoulder-shaking cackles as MacCready’s expression crumpled into confused annoyance. He laughed like they were old familiar friends, not uneasy hostile allies.

“What??”

“I’ve don’t think think I’ve ever heard you swear, man,” Preston replied between giggles. His coat still pressed uncomfortably into his back. His dick pressed uncomfortably against his pants. He placed a hand over MacCready’s, hesitating only a moment before grasping it, moving it from his hip to his crotch.

MacCready hissed, a sharp exhalation Preston felt hot against his frozen cheek.

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” Preston gasped as MacCready gave him a rough squeeze.

“You’re lucky I’m cold.”

Perhaps MacCready had intended to sound domineering or cruel, but to Preston’s ears he only sounded petulant. He laughed again as he pulled MacCready in for another kiss. Giggled against his lips. He felt heady and horny, hypnotized by the shadows dancing across room and thick smells of smoke and musk. He clung to MacCready’s shoulder with one hand and fumbled open his pants with the other.

Even under the blankets the night air struck Preston like a block of ice. He hissed as MacCready worked him out with a rough cold hand, wilted somewhat but recovered quickly as the hand began to move.

Their position was awkward: Preston on his back, MacCready half draped over his side, huffing into his neck while he worked between Preston’s legs. The way the hem of his underwear caught and dragged against the base of his dick was unpleasant, but Preston didn’t dare take off his pants. He could barely feel the cold now for the heat pounding through his veins, but his breath still came in white curling pants with every jerk and squeeze. He felt MacCready’s own erection pressing into his hip and he thought, distractedly, that he was being selfish. Preston shifted with the half-formed thought of repositioning himself to better reciprocate. Before he could MacCready pressed him back down onto the mattress, muttered something he couldn’t hear against the shell of his ear, and slipped under the blanket.

“What…?” The question died in Preston’s throat with yelp when MacCready took him in his mouth. Hot wet heat enveloped him, startling and almost painful. He swore loudly, then hissed as a brief improbable moment of clarity reminded him he should be quiet. He brought a fist to his mouth, bit down hard on his knuckles and muffled a scream.

It wasn’t the best blowjob Preston had ever had. MacCready was sloppy, rough, and careless with his teeth. He was distracted too. Preston couldn’t see the man but he could see the lump beneath the blankets shifting obscenely in the dark. He imagined MacCready hunched over, his own swollen cock in one hand while working the root of Preston’s with the other.

The image did it, along with a final rough suck on the tip of his dick. Preston came, stifling curses and screams with a gnawed on fist. He thought he felt MacCready swallow. He knew he didn’t hear him spit.

The blanket lump shuffled and jerked for several more seconds before MacCready let out a sharp muffled gasp of his own and stilled.

The fire cracked again. Preston hardly heard it, dizzy and spent and pleasantly warm for the first time in weeks as he was. He reached under the covers to tuck himself back into his pants. Then he pawed around until his fingers brushed against MacCready’s sweat-damp hair. He brushed blindly at the strands before giving the other man a lazy pat.

“Should’ve let me help,” Preston muttered.

Preston didn’t think MacCready heard him until he started to drift off. The warmth from earlier was beginning to fade, except for where MacCready had curled up like a cat between his thighs.

“Thought you didn’t like me,” Preston heard. He dragged the words down with him as he slipped below the deep dark cover of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the definition of self indulgence but if no one else will produce the Good Content for the best ship in Fallout 4 then I guess it falls to me to churn out the Bad.


End file.
